


First Priorities

by susies_fandom_wonders



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Blood, Drinking, Gen, Self-Harm, Vomiting, clark's such a good friend, he wanted to give randall kisses, hershel can't handle the memories of randall falling in the akbadain ruins, hershel had an unrequited crush on randall, like. a mad gay crush, randall did not feel the same
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 01:20:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17437172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susies_fandom_wonders/pseuds/susies_fandom_wonders
Summary: Hershel is found by Clark in the bathroom, lost in the final moments of Randall's life before he fell in the Akbadain ruins.Hershel just wants to forget, but the blame he puts on himself just won't go away.





	First Priorities

An empty bottle of cheap wine. A red messenger cap on the ground. A boy – not even eighteen yet, really; he was still so new to everything around him – hunched over the toilet, sleeves rolled up and revealing a mess of crisscrossed lines – scars, new and old, silvery and pink alike – amongst the blood trickling down his skin.

Hershel’s eyes burned. Tears trailed down his chin, his tears plopping onto the toilet lid and into the water, turned red from the wine and half-digested dinner he’d thrown up. His dry, quiet sobs cut into the silent air around him, body trembling as he lurched again, coughing and gagging with a force that left him gasping for air, into the toilet in front of him, heaving up nothing but broken breaths and thickened, yellowed stomach acid, plopping like an egg yolk into the dirtied water.

The boy’s body was slick with sweat as he knelt there, and his stomach calmed enough for him to lean back, feeling lightheaded and so, so _worthless_. A hand slid from the porcelain bowl in front of him and fell to the ground, reaching and grasping for a familiar slice of metal, the steel cutting into his palm as he brought it up to his other arm, pressing down and feeling the welcoming tug of skin against metal.

Sucking in a quiet breath, Hershel drew the blade across his skin – another red line appeared a moment later, beading crimson drops of blood and trailing down his skin, dripping onto the floor. To say that Hershel cared about the mess he was making was an absolute overstatement – in reality, he couldn’t care less. He just wanted the pain and the memories of his best friend falling into that godforsaken pit (over, and over, and _over_ , an endless cycle of seeing Randall’s face twisting into shock before he was consumed by that fathomless darkness too much, _too much_ ) to come to a grinding halt.

His stomach twisted, and Hershel dropped the blade – slick with the blood from his sliced-up palm – onto the ground, the metal clattering as the boy’s head jerked forward, mouth opening and stomach tightening in the hopes something, somehow, would come up; a horrible, strangled heaving noise launching from his throat.

“Hershel?” The boy flinched at his name, throat closing in fear and mind clearing up alarmingly fast as he pulled away from the bowl quickly, hand shooting up and trying to find the handle to flush the contents of his stomach down the toilet. Clark’s voice drifted in, just behind the door. “Are you quite alright?”

Yes, he wanted to answer. Unfortunately, his stomach twisted again, making whatever answer he had die in his throat in favor of gagging again, hot tears streaming down his face.

The bathroom door opened, and Hershel screwed his eyes shut, waiting for the questions he knew would come. Footsteps came towards him slowly, and the soft rustle of fabric told Hershel Clark was kneeling next to him.

“Don’t ask,” he managed after a moment of silence, voice ragged and hoarse. His voice cracked, tears starting anew and seeping through his clenched eyelids the longer Clark didn’t say anything, lips pulling back into a grimace. “… _Please_.”

“Hershel,” Clark started carefully (softly, as if he was talking to a frightened animal), and a soft pair of hands ghosted over his left arm, tracing bloody cuts and raised, silvery scars. “Let’s clean you up, alright…?”

Hershel’s eyes opened when he heard Clark turn away, shuffling through the medicine cabinet, and he stared blankly at the white of the toilet bowl in front of him, smeared red with blood, when Clark returned his attention to him, holding alcohol wipes and band-aids. He placed them on the ground, then reached for Hershel’s arm, pulling it towards him, seemingly trying to determine how deep the cuts were. How Clark’s hands were so steady while Hershel felt like he was falling apart at the seams, he wasn’t sure. All he knew was that his roommate was like an anchor, keeping him tethered and away from the thoughts that threatened to sweep him away.

“Try to match your breathing with mine,” Clark whispered as he let go of Hershel’s arm to grab an alcohol wipe, tearing open the packaging. Hershel slowly dragged in a deep breath, body shuddering, and Clark grabbed his arm again. “That’s it – now, this may sting a bit – here, grab my arm, squeeze if you need to –” Clark grabbed Hershel’s other hand, not minding the half-congealed blood that smeared on him from the boy’s sliced up palm and placing it on his arm. “There we go.”

Hershel finally looked over at his roommate, then quickly wished he hadn’t. Clark’s face was swimming with worry and guilt, a few tears trailing slowly down his face as he finally pressed the alcohol wipe against his arm, dabbing and wiping at the blood on his arm. The boy hissed, arm jerking unconsciously, and Clark looked up at him, searching Hershel’s gaze carefully before he gave what appeared to be a reassuring smile with misty eyes. He looked back to Hershel’s arm, swiping at the trails of drying blood before he set the wipe to the side, looking over the cuts carefully. Giving a soft, dissatisfied sigh, he reached for another wipe.

“… You can reach out to me if you need to.” More swipes at Hershel’s arm; more crimson lifted from his pale skin. “You don’t need to… you shouldn’t be dealing with these emotions alone.” Clark reached for a bandage, next. “I… Hershel, you are a dear friend to me. I’ve seen how you tear yourself apart – I’ve seen how you work for days without eating, how you spend all day pouring over our archaeology books. It, while it is admirable – and please, don’t take offense to this – it isn’t healthy.”

Hershel knew very well how unhealthy it was. He sat there, feeling his mouth become dry as his stomach churned. Clark looked back up at him as he placed the bandage over the first of multiple cuts, and the boy struggled to form words. “I-I –” He swallowed down bile; another bandage was grabbed. “My….”

“Please, don’t feel pressured to talk about it if you don’t want to.” Hershel felt more tears prickling the corners of his vision, breathing growing shaky. “Focus on your breathing.”

“My friend,” Hershel began, the words tumbling out, “loved archaeology. I was never interested in it.” He looked back up at Clark, and he waited for a moment, letting the weight of those statements sink in. His – his friend – met his gaze, eyebrows cinching together. He was confused. “I just wanted to be wherever he was.” His throat began to close up, immovable lump forming in his throat. “A-And – I… I am to blame for what happened to him.” Clark’s eyes finally lit up in realization, and he frowned.

“Hershel –” The boy cut him off, body beginning to tremble as desperation clawed up his throat – finally, finally, he was addressing what had happened all those months ago, looking at the bone-deep wounds that ate at him.

“ _I loved him_.” The world felt like it was pressing down on Hershel’s shoulders, suffocating him. He tightened his grip on Clark, fearing if he didn’t he’d fall like Randall, breaths becoming more and more unsteady until he was gasping for breath, his mind’s eye helpfully replaying Randall’s fall once more. “I loved him and I wanted to tell him how much I loved him a-and I let him fall –”

“ _Hershel_ –” The boy suddenly turned away and brokenly heaved into the toilet, sounds fading away for a moment from the intensity of it. Clark had dropped his arm in favor of rubbing his back. “Hershel, this may sound stupid, but… if you loved him so much, you are not to blame.” Hershel immediately began shaking his head, denying what Clark said with a sense of finality that hung heavily in the air.

“I am –”

“You aren’t.” Clark’s voice was so soft. “You did all you could.”

“He still fell.” The words were so quiet Hershel very well could have mouthed them. “I was still blamed. Isn’t that enough proof?”

“Sometimes….” Clark had returned to bandaging Hershel’s cuts when he made sure he was done heaving, tone contemplative and hesitant. “Sometimes, you do all you can, and fate still has something different in mind. You did all you could.” The phrase hung in the air as Clark moved to Hershel’s other arm, the silence that stretched was heavy and thick. “How about you and me take a sick day and just hang around the flat tomorrow? We could both use the break.”

Guilt weighed Hershel down even more. “I-I couldn’t possibly –”

“It’s whatever you want.” Clark smiled as he wiped away the blood from Hershel’s lacerated palm. “Just a suggestion. We can always see how you’re doing tomorrow and go from there – and if we need, we could get Brenda’s notes. She’s good with that sort of thing.”

“I’m sorry.” Hershel felt the apology slip from him, second nature at this point. Clark looked up, busy bandaging Hershel’s hand with a roll of gauze.

“What for?” The boy paused, all the reasons why he felt the need to apologize making him freeze for a bit. Finally, he settled on:

“Everything.”

“No need.” Clark gathered the used supplies, tossing them in the bathroom garbage before grabbing one more alcohol wipe to clean the blood off his arm, from where Hershel had been grabbing him. He stood up as he scrubbed the crimson from his skin. “Anything for a friend. Now, let’s get you out of those clothes and get some water into you. You probably can’t handle any food yet, right?”

Hershel looked up at Clark. “But the mess –”

“We’ll handle it later.” Clark reached, flushing the toilet and then extending his hand to Hershel, who took it after a moment of hesitation. “You come first.”


End file.
